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New York Thomas Y. Crowell Company Publishers. Fletcher's road, ye idle, lounging, little— Vagabond, I think the woman Sally Watkins, once my nursewas going to say, but she changed her mind. My father and I both glanced round, surprised at her unusual reticence of epithets; but when the lad addressed turned, fixed his eyes on each of us for a moment, and made way for us, we ceased to wonder. Ragged, muddy, and miserable as he was, the poor boy looked anything but a vagabond. Keep close to the wall, and there will be shelter enough both for us and thee, said my father, as he pulled my little hand-carriage into the alley, under cover, from the pelting rain.

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